Two Kinds of Loneliness
by storytellerslie
Summary: You know the story - boy meets girl and they fall in love. But are things ever really that simple? Not for these two. The disjointed ramblings of a couple getting to know each other and themselves, as they struggle with everything life throws at them.A/H
1. Prologue

"**Sometimes I let the fear, take the wheel and steer."**

**Incubus 'Drive'**

**EPOV**

The strangest things make me nervous.

Like making small talk with my hairdresser while she cuts my hair.

It's not that I think that she'll do a bad job if she's distracted by my stellar communication skills – it's that my communication skills are so lacking that the mere thought of talking to her makes my palms sweaty.

Or calling for a pizza.

Sitting with the phone in my hand, psyching myself up to dial. It's just a fucking pizza for God's sake. What is that about?

And the big stuff? Job interviews, presentations, social functions?

Forget it.

I'm a quivering mass of nerves. My stomach is literally in knots as my IBS rears its ugly head, and suddenly the location of the nearest toilet is the most important information in the world.

I'm not entirely sure when this happened.

I don't think I was always like this. My parents have these memories of an outgoing vivacious child who always wanted to be the center of attention.

I have no idea where he's gone. Why he felt the need to up and leave me in this frustrating form of, mild to all out, panic for the rest of my life, but he has.

I remember nights lying awake in bed, endless 'What if's?' circling through my mind like a mantra.

What if my dad's in a car crash tomorrow and dies?

What if my parents get a divorce, who will I live with?

What if I slip and fall in the shower while there's no one else home? I could hit my head and die. Someone would find me, rigor mortis setting into my naked body, arms and legs flung out at awkward angles. That would be scarring for someone to stumble upon when they just needed to take a piss.

Actually, that one's still pretty current.

Actually, that one might have run through my mind during my shower this morning.

Anyway, you get the picture right?

I'm the kind of guy that'll cross the road to avoid someone I actually know, because I have this vague fear that they won't recognize me or want to talk to me.

I'm the kind of guy who budgets, who prepares for the worst.

I'm the kind of guy that the worst usually happens to.

Okay, maybe that's just my morbid paranoia settling in. In fact, most of the things I worried about when I was a kid, and that continue to plague me now, have never happened.

I have never…drowned while out on a boat trip.

I have never… fallen off of a well known monument in any of the major cities I've visited.

I have never…choked on a piece of popcorn while watching a movie alone on a Saturday night.

Yet all of these thoughts, and more, continue to pop up. Unbidden and unwelcome, like an ulcer on the inside of your cheek.

Which coincidentally, I also worry about. Even though I've never had one.

You know that expression, worry yourself to death? Sometimes I worry that that's what I'm doing to myself.

How sadly ironic is that?

I worry, that I worry too much.

All of which seems to dictate the type of person I am.

Responsible, sensible, careful. God, I hate those terms. But they're fair and accurate, even if I do hate them.

Though none of them explain what I'm doing here.

Why I'm about to throw myself over the side of a bridge for recreation.

Why I'm on the other side of the world from my comfortable apartment and my dependable life.

Why I just left everything behind and I can't even bring myself to care.

It's because she asked.

How fucked up is that?

"**Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which one gets filled first."**

**Green Day 'Geek Stink Breath' **

**BPOV**

What's the point in wanting something if you don't go after it?

I can't stand this idea of pining away for the rest of my life longing for something and never having the balls to do anything about it. Okay so you might not get it. Failure is crushing. I get that. I do. And I don't always get everything I go after, but you have to try.

You just have to. _I_ just have to anyway. It's not optional; it's compulsory.

I don't even think it matters what it is that you want.

As long as it's not world domination, or sharks with frickin' laser beams on their heads, then my philosophy remains – go after it.

I have my own provisos to this. I'm not going to step on someone else to get what I want. I'm not a megalomaniac and I'm not going to take anything from anyone else. I'm not saying, no matter what, no holds barred, do anything to achieve your goals, no matter how many people you leave dead and buried along the way. This attitude isn't really as cutthroat as it initially sounds is it?

Just give it a shot.

My mom didn't teach me a lot. She was flighty and pretty far away for most of my life. But, she did teach me that. She put herself out there. No matter what. I used to think she was fearless, but now I know that it was a choice. Each and every time, she decided. It might not work, I might make a fool of myself, and this might go wrong. I'm going to do it anyway.

I think that's fucking incredible.

She couldn't cook, she never cleaned, she got involved in crazy schemes and she married a man 15 years younger than her. But she definitely lived.

So, now I'm living and I'm having a blast.

It's not always easy. There's no back up, no safety net and not many reassurances. I've found myself sleeping in the bed of my truck, wondering where the next meal might come from and I've sofa surfed more times than I've probably been welcome.

But I think it's been worth it.

I've seen some amazing things, and I've met some amazing people. In my opinion, I'm living an amazing life.

Hang on, what was I talking about?

Things I've wanted in the past. Things I've been told I would never get, could never have and I did anyway? They include:

Getting my photographs published and being paid for them – the figure isn't important!

Driving my truck from coast to coast without paying a dollar in mechanics fees – that one may have been a miracle.

Making my way backstage at a Foo Fighters gig and meeting the man, the legend Dave Grohl – seriously, I had to try so hard to act cool and not fan girl out on him, I was the picture of nonchalance.

So if I want something, I have to try.

But now I want something and I don't even know how to go about getting it. Actually that should be _him_. He is beautiful, and he doesn't even know it. He is almost cripplingly without social skills. He looks at me like he's the bunny and I'm the headlights. It's like he's frozen into immobility by me.

I can't figure out if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

But if he doesn't get over it, if he doesn't move, I might run him over.

That's the problem with the whole Gung-ho jump into everything attitude. People who don't have that attitude, scare easily. He seems like he'll scare easy, which means I'll probably scare him off. He looks clean and well looked after. His hands are probably soft and smooth, and he's probably never had to rough it in his life.

How can a grown ass man seem so delicate?

I'm not sure he'll be able to handle me, or if he'll even want to try.

But I'm going to.

**A/N - Thanks to the guys at PTB for looking at this randomness for me. So this probably won't be for everyone, but if you liked it...or if you hated it, let me know.**


	2. possesions scattered

**"If you are not very careful, your possessions will possess you."**

**Marina & the Diamonds 'Oh No!'**

**EPOV**

My apartment is full of stuff.

I don't even know where half of it came from.

At some point, I must have thought I needed or wanted all of it.

But now? It's just stuff. It takes up space and sits sadly. It looks at me and seems to say, _"Why don't you love me anymore?"_

I feel like I'm being emotionally blackmailed by my coffee table.

I remember the day I bought that coffee table.

It was a Saturday, and I was at Ikea. I didn't really need anything from Ikea, but I was there anyway. Throwing myself from one couch to another, trying out these bite sized fragments of perfect lives.

Who was I?

Contemporary hipster living in a loft complete with exposed brickwork in my bedroom/living room/kitchen.

Modern family in our small but perfectly formed new build, filled with space saving storage devices.

Or single professional in my sleek urban apartment.

I could never seem to fit myself into one of their stereotyped spaces, but I liked trying them on. Trying to mould myself to their preconceived notions of life.

It's a dangerous place Ikea. They seduce you with their bizarre Swedish names, and you forget that you have no idea what a Förhöja is, or what you could possibly use it for. All you know is that you _need_ one.

It's clever and quirky and just the thing to complete your bedroom set. If that's even where it goes.

I saw that coffee table and thought maybe it would help me to define myself. In a bizarre moment of uncertainty and confusion I truly believed that if I bought that coffee table, I could make myself fit perfectly into one of their artificial spaces.

I would truly know what caste of the furniture system I belonged to, and I could start to really make my mark on my living environment. It would be the first step to reclaiming my life, to knowing where I belonged, to finally understanding who I was.

I was filled with hope. It seemed ridiculous that I hadn't realised before just how important this coffee table would actually be in the grand scheme of my life.

The coffee table was a lie.

It sat in the middle of my living room, just as incongruous as every other piece of furniture I'd ever bought. It looked intimidated by my flat screen, and snobbily unimpressed with my couch. It was disappointed in me.

Every time I had the gall to put something on it's surface it would whine at me. I could feel it's judgement and almost hear the words. _"You said this would be the start of something great. I thought I was coming here to be cherished and admired, and you've left me to wallow with these outcasts and miscreants. I don't belong here."_

Truthfully, I felt bad for the whiny little thing. He was right, he didn't belong here. Nothing did.

It wasn't just the coffee table, although it seemed to epitomise everything else in a single focal point that I couldn't hide in a cupboard.

It was the George Foreman grill in my kitchen. When did a normal grill become unacceptable, I wondered.

It was the throw pillows on my bed. They must have been bought by my mother, and I sometimes stood staring at them, trying to figure out their purpose in my life.

It was the floating storage unit that housed my DVD's and games. Why did it need to float? Surely that was just showing off. What was wrong with a book shelf?

All these things seemed to mock me. They took my money and gave me nothing in return. They sat by, in constant judgement of the way I was living my life.

They owned me.

I spent my hard earned cash (okay, maybe it's not that hard earned, but that's another conversation) on these disparate items, and I felt compelled to protect them.

It was an endless cycle.

Even after I'd paid for them, which should be the end of it, they wanted more. They wanted insurance, they wanted to feel secure in their position.

Should they be stolen or destroyed in a fire or – worst of all – dropped carelessly on the floor. They wanted reassurance that should the unexpected occur, that one of their brethren would step up to take their place. That everything was taken care of.

They owned me.

I was tied to this place, this life, by these things. I allowed them to exert their passive control over me with barely a struggle.

As I may have mentioned, I'm a worrier.

What if there was a fire? It's important that I not be homeless or without shoes or clothes; that's just basic survival – shelter is essential. From there it isn't too much of leap to throw your TV in with the basic necessities. Or your laptop. Or your blender.

Then where does it end?

Does it end?

Everyone wants to think they could be Tyler Durden.

But I know I couldn't be him.

I'm the narrator. I'm still waiting for my spiritual awakening. But if I have to create a terrorist alter ego to get there, I'll probably be waiting a while.

I'm just not that creative. Or that crazy. Well, I don't think so anyway. But then, how would I know?

Either way, the idea of living in a derelict house with no electricity, making soap, doesn't really appeal to me either.

I'd miss my iPhone too much.

Tyler would be unimpressed with my commitment.

I'm a walking contradiction. and I have no idea what I want.

**"Picture perfect memories, scattered all around the floor.**  
**Reaching for the phone, cause I can't fight it anymore."**

**Lady Antebellum - 'Need You Now'**

**BPOV**

My life, my whole life, fits into a shoe box.

Everything that matters anyway.

Everything I'd try to save, if it came down to it.

That's one of the benefits of living out of a backpack. You learn to seriously prioritise what's important to you. Into the things that you actually _need_ to live your life, and the things you cherish.

My shoe box is full of things I cherish.

I suppose it would look like junk to anyone else, but isn't that the beauty of it? That these trinkets and keepsakes could form the foundation of someone's existence, or the detritus of someone else's.

A miniature carved wolf that a friend gave to me – he tried to pretend he made it himself.

A weather beaten pebble - smoothed by the ocean - the exact colour of the sky at home.

A tiny jewellery box with a tiny ring inside - the first piece of jewellery my mother ever gave me.

I look at them all from time to time. To remind myself where I come from, and to remind myself of the people who made me who I am. Sometimes I'm wearing a cheap plastic tiara, small enough for a child, and sometimes I'm holding a perfectly flattened penny.

Most of the time it's enough. Except for the times when it isn't.

About six months ago I had a slight mishap. Like many of my mishaps it resulted in me wearing a backless paper gown and a charming plastic bracelet adorned with my name and date of birth.

I needed surgery. It was minor; I don't even think I would call it surgery. I think it lasted all of five minutes. They needed a next of kin. They wouldn't take no for an answer, and they started asking questions.

Apparently I'm estranged from my father. That's what they call it when you haven't spoken to him in two years. I remember thinking what an odd idea that was, how we had been defined that way by someone who didn't even know us. I didn't feel estranged. As far as the dictionary definition of the word goes; I wasn't 'displaying or evincing a feeling of alienation', but maybe he was.

I hadn't ever considered it that way before.

He knew I was safe. I might not call or visit, but he knew I was alive. I sent him postcards. Postcards from every place I'd been, from major cities to the smallest towns. No matter the place. You can always find a postcard. I told him little facts about my life, about the places I'd seen and the people I'd met.

But I never called.

At the bottom of my box there's another set of postcards. They're identical. The same towns, the same pictures, the same stories. Only the name is different.

They're for her.

It's these I look at most often. I like to spread them all around me. Like a map of memories. All I need is a floor, my box and my memories.

But memories are tricky things. They start to drift away from you before you even realise it. Like the exact colour of her hair, or the way she drank her tea, or the way she screamed and shouted the last time I saw her. One day they could all betray me. Then this box of treasures won't matter to anyone, not even me.

In the end they called Rose. I hadn't spoken to her in a couple of months either. But apparently when it's a friend that just means you've drifted apart. We weren't 'estranged'. How do they even decide?

She came.

By the time I was out of surgery, she was at my side with a deep frown etched on her forehead and her arms pressed tightly across her chest. She took me home with her too. So it's been six months, the longest I've stayed anywhere in years. And I'm only hours from home.

From him.

I should call. I should visit. Why can't I? Why does the phone seem so daunting, the dial tone so ominous? Because he's the only family I have left.

It seems to take an eternity for the ringing to start – then even longer for it to stop.

His voice is just as gruff as I remember it, all earth and flannel and strength.

"Hello?"

Mine is weak and distance and regret.

"Hello."

There's a sharp breath and a long sigh.

"Bells?"

"Hi Dad."

That's all there is. He won't ask me where I've been, why I ran away and why I stayed away so long.

Even if he wants to, he won't.

She'd be sobbing down the phone, begging me to come home. Telling me how scared and worried she'd been. Charlie does none of these things. But it doesn't mean he cares any less. He is my father, and he understands me in a way she never could.

In a way she never will.

**A/N - This is probably a little random and not for everybody, but if you liked it or hated it, let me know. A big thanks to the people at PTB, who probably didn't know what to make of it either, but helped me out anyway. **


	3. bigger mess

"**Our bodies get bigger, but our hearts get torn up."**

**The Arcade Fire 'Wake Up'**

**EPOV**

Jasper Whitlock is a relic.

Not literally.

I mean, literally, he's just a man.

6'2", dirty blond hair, I think his eyes are blue – but I can't guarantee it. I don't spend that much time gazing into them.

But to me, he's a relic.

Or a sensory memory stimulant.

One smile from him, and I'm transported. I'm suddenly ten years old again. It's always summertime. For some reason, it's always summertime.

Almost as if my mind has gotten rid of any and all memories of him in school or in the winter.

In my mind, Jasper Whitlock and I are always in the sunshine.

It filters through trees and dapples on the ground.

It gets in our eyes as we race our bikes down the biggest hills we can find.

It sets slowly, allowing us an extra few minutes before we have to be home.

It's always shining.

He is a relic of all of these things.

A relic of my childhood. The only one left.

Obviously I'm seeing those summers filtered through years of angst and depression and plain old misery.

Rose tinted doesn't really cover it.

And I know it's ridiculous to talk about my childhood like it's some bygone golden epoch.

But isn't it?

Aren't they all?

All I know is how much simpler things were then.

How much easier.

How much happier.

Again, this probably isn't true, or even all that accurate. But that's how it feels.

When summer stretched on endlessly before you, because eight weeks felt like a lifetime. When no argument couldn't be resolved by a simple game of rock, paper, scissors. When you were free for the first time in your life.

I can't remember ever feeling as free as I did that summer.

Old enough to spend the day without parental supervision, but young enough to not even understand the meaning of 'responsibility.

It was perfect.

Fleeting, transitory and unappreciated. The same as all perfect things. Nothing can stay perfect forever.

Things got hard not too long after that.

Not in any deep, meaningful way. Not in the kind of way that would allow me to write a bestseller scathingly titled "Please, Daddy, No" or anything.

Just hard in the way that we all remember.

Because growing up is hard.

And it's not any easier when you're the kid with the weird hair who plays piano and reads all day.

Not when you're the kid saving up his birthday money for a rainy day.

Especially not when you're the kid lecturing everyone about the Ozone Layer like they even care.

But Jasper Whitlock didn't care.

He was my friend then, and he still is now.

The last remaining artefact of my childhood.

The Rosetta Stone for all the memories of my youth.

I actually think he always will be. And how lucky does that make me?

Incredibly.

We're different, Jasper and I. We were different then, and we're even more different now. But different seems to work for us.

Jay is the kind of person who can put everyone at ease – even me.

People just gravitate towards him.

He's confident and cocky, and if he were anyone else, I'd probably hate him on sight.

But he isn't anyone else. He's Jay.

So I put up with it.

The laughable southern drawl he puts on just for the ladies, the overlong hair that makes him look like a surfer and his horrendous attempts at playing the guitar.

I can put up with all of it.

Because he puts up with me.

He pulls me out of my fucked up little introvert world.

He stops me from over-thinking every little thing.

He understands why I am the way I am.

Because without him, I probably wouldn't have made it through high school.

"**I'm not here for your entertainment,  
You don't really want to mess with me tonight."**

**Pink 'You and Your Hand'**

**BPOV**

Sometimes misconceptions are hilarious.

Don't get me wrong, stereotypes in general, I hate. But the misconceptions that go along with them?

Priceless.

Oh, I sound like a Mastercard ad.

Anyway.

My best friend, Rosalie Lillian Hale, is a walking stereotype. When she was young, people would stop her mother in the street just to tell her how beautiful she was, how adorable, how charming. Mrs. Hale ate it up. Like some sort of bizarre vampire, she leeched off of her own daughter's attractiveness. She lived vicariously off of compliments meant for her own child, as though she could some how give her own life meaning through a second chance at a life that was never meant to be hers.

But it was never enough.

Mrs. Hale (I'm not sure if she even has a first name, if she does I was never invited to use it) decided that there were so many more opportunities for her beautiful child. In the world of kiddie beauty pageants.

All around their house are these disturbing images of tiny little Rosie, her face frozen into this uber-creepy smile, staring out at you like some demented kid from Village of the Damned. Super white hair, perfect blue eyes. It's just so wrong. Isn't that, like, child abuse or something?

I can't tell you how relieved I am that I didn't know her then. And I've never been so relieved that I wasn't nearly beautiful enough for that. Because if someone tells you you're beautiful, if that's all they ever tell you, then soon enough you might start to believe that that's all you're worth.

It didn't matter to Mrs. Hale that Rosie would rather be out playing in the dirt with boys than practicing her walk. It didn't matter that she was covered in scrapes and bruises from climbing trees under her dress. It didn't matter that she would rather have been holding a trophy for anything, other than looking pretty.

Because looking pretty was what she was good at.

Looking pretty was what she was valued for.

But looking pretty didn't mean shit to Rose.

Which is fine. But these things can't really be avoided. It's not like she can walk around with a bag on her head so that people don't see how beautiful she is. Which means that people are always making assumptions about her.

Like, someone that beautiful couldn't possibly be smart as well. Or funny, or insecure or any of the other million and one personality traits she could possess.

So she's also a walking misconception waiting to happen.

It happens frequently.

Now that she's all grown up, Rosie isn't adorable anymore. She's stunning. Now that she's all grown up, she isn't all that charming either. In fact, she's kind of a bitch.

She's like Bitch Barbie, complete with ball breaking stilettos and a serious attitude problem. All of which I love. She's not just the pretty one anymore. She has so much more to offer, and she knows it. She isn't afraid to make sure you know it too.

That's one thing I've always envied about her. She's always known who she is, and what she wants. Even under the pressure of pod–people, beauty pageant craziness, she always knew what she wanted. Who she was going to be.

And she refuses to change for anyone.

I change for everyone. I'm like a malleable lump of clay. Mould your own Bella, make her whatever you need her to be. I was the responsible adult for my mother. The respectful daughter for my father. The sensible studious one to my friends. I don't think I ever really took the time to consider who I was. Who I would be, if I wasn't always so concerned with making myself who they wanted me to be.

But it's not their fault; it's my fault. Nobody forced me to be someone else. There was no crazy pressure from psycho stage parents for me, just quiet acceptance and support. Yet, I still felt the need to be what they wanted me to be. Not that I even knew what they wanted me to be. I never sat down and conducted a poll on it or anything.

Rose was always different though. She might be scary as hell, even to me, but she always pushed me to see that I had a choice. That this was my life, and I should be living it the way I wanted to. She understood the frustration of being forced into a way of life that you resented, and she couldn't understand why I would willingly allow that to happen to myself.

How I could be so passive in my own life.

Now that I look back on it, neither can I.

**A/N - So, yeah. Even I'm not too sure what to make of my Edward and Bella, but I'd love to know what you think. In case anyone's interested, the song lyrics come before the chapter...they're bascially prompts and I'm never too sure what's going to come out. But as long as they can be roughly made to fit into the story, it all goes in. So if you have a lyric and you'd like to see what my warped mind makes of it, let me know. **

**Thanks again to the people at PTB (especially JillM12 for this chapter), they're awesome, and very patient with this random little story.  
**


	4. scholars world

"**Just a small town girl, Living in a lonely world,**

**She took the midnight train goin' anywhere."**

**Journey 'Don't Stop Believin'**

**BPOV **

When you're a kid, your parents tell you that you can be anything, that every opportunity is yours for the taking. That if you just work hard enough, and want it enough, then you can achieve anything.

Well, my parents did anyway.

I know not everyone's quite as lucky as me. I had supportive, enthusiastic parents – poor me, right?

They told me I could do or be anything I wanted.

The problem is – I believed them.

I used to be one of those people who had their whole life planned out. I was on track. I had goals and ambition and focus. I was headed toward something. I knew what I wanted.

Really, I had no friggin' clue what I wanted.

Sometimes I feel like people have all this drive to achieve because they're told they're supposed to want it. You need to do well in school, go to a good college, get a good job, get married, have a bunch of kids - then you'll be happy.

I bought into all of it.

That this is what life is all about, working to achieve the things you want, the things you need. All as part of some greater conquest for 'happiness.' Like that's some easily quantifiable thing.

I was going to be a teacher. That was something I felt I could be proud of, something achievable, something obtainable. It was all part of the plan. My plan.

Her dying? That definitely wasn't part of the plan - of any fucking plan.

It was like someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over my entire existence, and I was angry. Suddenly, I couldn't see the point of it anymore. What the fuck was I actually working toward anyway? All of this effort, education, money, time. For what? For more work, money, stuff. It wasn't just that it didn't seem worth the effort anymore. I didn't even know what was important anymore. All my goals and achievements, they were trivial, empty.

Meaningless.

So I did something else instead.

The shock and awe were pretty great. Kids I went to school with gossiped, and rumors spread around town that I was knocked up, or worse. I revelled in it. I let them believe what they wanted to believe in their small town minds and their petty interpretations.. But Charlie's disappointment was hard to take.

I was his golden girl, his pride and joy. The first Swan ever to go to college. He'd been saving for years, putting a little of his hard earned money aside every month. For me. For the opportunities I'd have. For my future.

He never said anything, but I knew he felt like I was throwing it all back in his face. That I thought the way he had chosen to live his life wasn't good enough for me. It wasn't that though. It was _too_ good for me. Too good for me to waste on my confusion and discontent.

I couldn't understand it, and I couldn't appreciate it.

Suddenly, I was my mother's daughter. A free spirit. A flake. That's what they said about me – people I'd known my whole life.

Now everyone I knew has grown up. They've got careers rather than jobs, mortgages rather than rent, kids instead of plants they can't keep alive from one day to the next. They're all following the plan. Their plan, my plan, a plan in any case.

I don't know if they're happy. Hell, most of the time I'm not even sure if I'm happy. So how could I possibly know if they're happier than I am? If their lives are more fulfilling, more enriching.

All I know is what I've got.

Those people I used to call my closest friends, they don't understand it at all. I used to see it in their faces when I visited; I used to see it in his face. This confusion as to why I would want to throw my life away. Because that's what they think I'm doing, and maybe I am, but at least I'm doing what I want to do. Not what I think is expected of me.

So I stopped visiting.

But I see their pictures, and I imagine their lives, and I'm still not sure if I made the right decision. Do they all feel tied down and constricted by the lives they've built for themselves, slaving away for that next pay check, only to see it all go on car payments and credit card bills and mortgages? Are they old before their time?

Even if they are, is that better than this constant state of arrested development, my own self-imposed suspended animation?

I haven't grown up at all. Sometimes I think that's awesome. But what if I'm missing out on so much more? I'm so scared to find out. I've never really tried for anything in my life.

I finished high school, not that that involved too much effort, and since then I've coasted through life. I work when I have to and it's always the same jobs that keep me moving from town to town while I go nowhere. I make friends everywhere I go. I'm likeable and funny, and it's easy for me to fit in. But I never stay anywhere long enough for people to really get to know me.

What if the real me is just a scared little girl, so afraid to fail that I never really try anything?

Everywhere I go, I watched people's lives grow and expand around me. Everything moved by so fast that it was reassuring how little my life ever actually changed.

But what if I'm just stuck? Stuck in an entirely different type of situation, but just as stuck as everyone else. I guess it all comes down to that word again.

Happiness.

Most of the time I think I'm pretty happy. But if you have to sit and ponder the question at all, then how happy can you really be?

"**After years of expensive education,  
A car full of books and anticipation,  
I'm an expert on Shakespeare and that's a hell of a lot.  
But the world don't need scholars as much as I thought."**

**Jamie Cullum 'Twentysomething'**

**EPOV**

When I was eight, I told my dad I wanted to be just like him when I grew up.

I wanted to be a doctor.

For Christmas that year, among other things, he gave me a stethoscope.

I can still see the glint in his eye as he watched me open it, hovering somewhere between pride and elation.

He'd never looked at me like that before. So it didn't matter that by that time all I actually wanted for Christmas was a remote controlled car, or whatever other stupid toy I might have been obsessed with at that moment.

Any disappointment I felt was tempered by the smile that broke across his face and the way he ruffled my hair when I put it into my ears and tried to listen to my own heart beat.

Even at eight years old I understood the importance of that moment, the significance of my father believing that my dreams echoed his.

A pattern started to develop shortly after that.

Christmases and birthdays filled with chemistry sets and dissecting kits and microscopes led to conversations about colleges and medical schools and specialities.

Conversations during which my father would pay me 100% attention and actually care about what I had to say.

I knew by the time my tenth birthday rolled around that I didn't actually want to be a doctor anymore.

I wanted to be an astronaut, a rock star, a games programmer, a graphic designer, a concert pianist, shit, somewhere among all those viable and totally ridiculous career goals there was probably five minutes where I thought about being a football player.

And anyone who knows me would be rolling on the floor at the thought.

But I didn't really know.

I didn't really care.

But he did, so I played along.

By the time I realized I _really_ didn't want to be a doctor, it felt like it was too late.

I'd studied so hard and been so focused that it seemed like I'd missed out on everything else. Not that anyone else realized I'd been missing – except Jay.

Jay, who knew I could pass any test and memorize any number of text books, but who also knew I was likely to pass out at the sight of actual blood.

Or vomit, or any other bodily fluid you'd like to think of.

Well, that's not strictly true – they only really bothered me when they were coming out of an actual person.

A lot of fucking good I was going to be at med school either way.

But there I was. Pre-med at college before I actually grew the balls to tell my own father that I'd changed my mind.

I didn't imagine the disappointment that dimmed his eyes or the reluctant sigh as he patted me on the back and told me that whatever I wanted to be was fine with him.

It was all there.

It's still there.

Every time they ask me 'How's work?' with that feigned interest that I've come to know so well.

Every time my father introduces me to someone and struggles to explain exactly what it is I do for a living.

Every time he thinks about what could have been.

I still went to college.

I did the whole academia thing, graduated with honors and all that.

I guess he was proud, but even as we took photos of me holding my bachelor's degree, and then my master's, he never looked as proud as he did of eight year old Edward playing with the stethoscope.

And you have to wonder, will it ever be enough?

Will I ever be enough?

At this point, I don't think it even really matters what I do for a living.

It is what it is.

But it probably should matter. I should probably care about more than the fact that it's easy and well paid and unchallenging.

But that's the problem.

I don't care.

**A/N - Huge thanks to the people over at PTB (especially LoriAnnTwiFan - love that name! and Lezlee) for their help on this chapter. They fix my commas even though they might be a litle confused by the rest! **

**So, I need song lyrics for later chapters - if you've taken the time to read this, please take another minute and send me your favourite lyric and I'll probably use it.  
**


	5. thumb girl

"**You stood out like a sore thumb, the most beautiful sore thumb I'd ever seen."**

**Maccabees 'About Your Dress'**

**BPOV**

I've always loved beautiful things.

I think it's probably because I'm not - beautiful that is. I mean, I'm pretty. My self-esteem isn't so low that I can't see that about myself. But I'm definitely not beautiful. Not in that heart-stopping, take your breath away kind of way.

But I do like beautiful things; art, clothes, nature, music. I'm not too picky about the situation or the means. I can appreciate beauty in just about anything. I guess it's true what they say. It really is in the eye of the beholder. You just have to train yourself to see it.

And I saw it in him.

That sounds so clichéd, doesn't it? Imagine my voice all light and airy, swooning over this mystery man like he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Unfortunately, that's frighteningly similar to how I actually reacted.

I'd never experienced that before. That moment when you seem to forget how to speak just due to the proximity of another person. It seems so wrong that someone else could inadvertently have such power over you. With barely a glance from him it was as though my brain had disappeared. That irritating heat spread across my cheeks and I immediately felt like a complete dickhead.

But I'm getting ahead of myself anyway.

I noticed him as soon as I walked in, but it's not like that was any great achievement. Since there were only four people in the shop, as my eyes swept around looking for a seat it would have been difficult not to notice a tall good looking guy, with some of the craziest hair I've ever seen.

Not to mention the fact that the two girls behind the counter were staring at him unabashedly, and I had to physically step into their line of sight and wave my hands around to get them to divert their gaze and take my order.

I love listening to other people's conversations. Watching their little intricacies and habits when they think no one's looking. It's like a hobby, like I'm an amateur anthropologist studying the modern human being.

These two were prime specimens.

I was intrigued by the differences between these two girls; one neatly perfect, not a hair out of place, pristine makeup, her uniform crisp and clean. The other with week-old, lime green nail polish chipping off, a uniform so crumpled it was like she'd picked it up off the floor that morning, and her face completely void of makeup.

Both girls were startlingly pretty, but in completely contrasting ways. The familiar way they spoke to each other made me wonder if their friendship was solely based on this shared experience. If at the end of the day they went their separate ways to separate groups of friends and separate interests. Would their lives ever have intersected if not for this innocuous chain of coffee shops, or had they known each other all of their lives?

It could have been either one, and for some reason that made me smile.

Anyway, I get distracted by these tangents sometimes. I find it hard to focus.

As they made me my coffee – which had so much milk and flavouring that I seriously doubted that it even counted as coffee – they continued to gush.

He was so gorgeous, dreamy, those eyes, that hair. Blah, blah, blah.

I turned to get a better look, and it was true. He was all of those sickly sweet synonyms, and he did indeed have eyes and hair. But I couldn't get past the hunch of his shoulders, the way his jaw was clenched, or the restless tapping of his fingertips against the edge of the table. His eyes kept flicking to the door, and he had his phone in his hand as though he was waiting for someone and was annoyed that they were late.

Yet for some reason, the more I watched him, the less convinced I became that he was waiting for anyone.

They were props, the coffee cup and phone in his hand, so that he didn't look like he was sitting there alone.

But, to be honest, I had never seen anyone look more alone in my life.

He was noticeable - that much was obvious, but everything about him was screaming "Don't look at me."

I thought that would be it, he would just be another conundrum for me to ponder. Another back story to invent. My feet had other ideas. My subconscious must have wanted a closer look at him because I took the more difficult route to the table I had had my eye on.

And yes, there are such things as difficult routes in coffee shops – the tables are close together and there are hot beverages. When you're as clumsy as I am, you start to notice these things.

One minute I was walking – sounds straight forward right? The next I was on the floor - coffee all over me.

Don't worry, it was iced coffee, did I forget to mention that?

"**I once met a girl, or should I say, she once met me."**

**The Beatles 'Norwegian Wood'**

**EPOV**

I hate sitting on my own.

It always feels like everyone's watching me. I know they aren't. I'm not that irrationally paranoid, but it seems like they are.

At times like this, I'm actually glad I have things.

Things like an almost inexhaustible supply of music, Wi-fi internet access, and paperback novels.

But today, I have none of those things and it's setting me on edge. I should have just gone home. I don't know why I didn't.

Except I hadn't actually left the house for anything but work in four days, and I was beginning to feel like a hermit.

Like a latte was going to turn me into a social butterfly or something.

So now I have nothing. My battery is too low to risk, and I left my book at home this morning.

The foam from this latte is churning uncomfortably in my stomach and I feel it weighing me down.

Weighed down by foam. Could I possibly be any more of a pussy?

The girls behind the counter _are_ staring at me. I can feel their gazes prickling the side of my neck like tiny pins.

The girl who served me had chipped nail varnish and now all I can think about is the fact that there might be flecks of it floating around in the foam.

The foam in my stomach.

Why are they staring? There's nothing interesting to see here.

The door opens and I reflexively sit up straighter, staring at my phone like it's going to be able to save me.

I glance up to see a mass of brown scanning the room.

There's lots of brown hair, brown eyes and big brown clomping boots.

Her boots make a ridiculous amount of noise as she crosses the room. Without my permission, I wince at the resounding thuds.

People must look up at the sound. They couldn't possibly not. She must want them to look.

That, I just don't understand.

With another sip of my coffee I'm almost certain I can taste the varnish. I should just leave.

I'm gripping my security blanket / phone unfeasibly tightly, and I force myself to loosen my hold.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. This shouldn't be so hard. I'm leaving.

Stretching my leg out, I hit something. Something too solid to be a bag, but not solid enough to be a chair or table leg.

I hear the crash, and without opening my eyes I know.

It's going to be brown.

My eyes open slowly, as if I'm afraid of what I'm going to find. Which is bizarre because I'm obviously still sitting in my seat – comfortable and secure. I'm not the one on the floor.

The first thing I see is - you guessed it - brown.

Big brown eyes made impossibly wide with surprise. Floating above the perfectly round "O" of a mouth.

Only now there's even more brown.

Light drops of it clinging to skin and tendrils of hair.

Puddles of it collecting on the floor.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a single smudge has landed on the corner of my shoe..

Red is bleaching into the brown on her skin. She's blushing.

I'm not surprised; I would be mortified.

I should be doing something, like helping. That's such an abstract notion though. I'm not a doctor, and I don't have a mop. What could I possibly bring to this scenario that would help?

Yet, my arm reaches out of its own volition.

"Are you okay?"

Her response is ear splitting. There are no words, just this cackle of laughter as she collapses fully into the puddles of brown. Wallowing in their simultaneous brow-ness; it must be comforting to her.

Great, I've incapacitated a crazy person.

I pull my hand back slowly. Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm thinking that she could reach out and bite my fingers at any moment. That's the kind of thing crazy people do, right?

No sudden movements. Or is that just for T-Rex's?

She's gasping, struggling for air. Waving her coffee covered hands around, and flecks of fluid are flying everywhere.

I'm pretty sure one lands on my check, right below my left eye.

"Oh my God! You should see your face! I'm the one covered in coffee, dude. Not you."

I can actually feel my jaw drop; crazy brown mass can speak.

She pulls herself off the floor in a tangle of limbs and liquid and just plain awkward.

Thrusting a sodden bag towards me, she grins widely.

"Watch this for me. I'm going to clean up."

As her overlarge boots clomp away, I'm sure I can hear squelching.

She seems odd, if not actually unstable, and I'm not sure I can handle odd.

I can feel the dampness of her bag seeping onto my legs and I contemplate bolting for the door. Wondering if I have time before she gets back.

It's now or never.

**A/N - Thanks again to PTB especially LoriAnnTwiFan, who helps me with my neurotic Edward and awkward Bella. Here's the 'brown'!**


	6. hi soul

**"I swear I never felt this way about any other guy.**

**And I don't usually notice people's eyes but,**

**You don't say hi as you walk by."**

**Kate Nash – 'We Get On'**

**BPOV**

My cheeks are flaming hot and there is coffee literally dripping off the end of my nose. I look a complete mess, but I can't stop this weird hyperactive giggle from escaping me every few moments.

I sound like some sort of braying goat; it's hideous and embarrassing and only making me blush even more – but I can't stop it.

As I stare at myself in the mirror of the tiny bathroom in the coffee shop, I try to order myself to get a grip. This is totally unlike me and faintly disturbing, but even as I'm sternly telling myself to calm down and act like a rational adult – yeah right, first time for everything – another one escapes. Like some sort of absurd giggle/snort combo that I have to slap my hands over my mouth to contain.

While I clean myself up - contemplating sucking the frap off my hair, or is that too gross? – I try not to think about how much of a fool I might have made of myself in front of the pretty boy.

Straightening my back and shaking the remnants of sugary, sweet, ice-cold coffee off my hair, I make my way back into the café. I try to ignore the uncomfortable squishing of coffee between my toes – but the sound it makes is pretty amusing.

He's still there, right where I left him, clutching my bag like a life preserver. Even from behind, I can tell he's thinking about leaving because his eyes repeatedly dart towards the door. I pause and give him a minute – if he's gonna bolt, I don't want to have to look him in the eye while he does it.

I watch his back go rigid as though he's steeling himself for something, like he's just made up his mind about something. My first instinct is to creep up on him, to slowly and quietly make my way over, so I don't disturb his delicate disposition. But then I figure, fuck it. He tripped me after all; I'm the one having the catastrophe of a day here. So, I stick to my usual graceful gait and drop myself into the chair opposite him with all the decorum of an elephant.

He seems to flinch as I break into his little den of solitude, but I try to ignore it and give him what I hope isn't too much of a crazy smile. "So, I guess I'll be sporting the aroma of caramel for the rest of the day, huh?"

His eyes flicker to mine, and there it is again - that weird palpitation thing in my chest, the sudden catch of my breath. I feel like one of the squirrely girls behind the counter as I actually begin to lose myself in his eyes.

Under his caterpillar-thick eyebrows and what appears to be a permanent frown, they are so green, almost too green, too green to be real, anyway. It's like someone's created them in Photoshop and cranked the vibrancy all the way up to Granny Smith green. Or, like he's been exposed to some bizarre radioactive waste and the glowing green of his eyes are the only indicator I have that he's about to hulk out on me.

He's looking back into my eyes like he's frightened of me, and I start to wonder if my smile was a little more on the crazy side than the not side.

"Well, there are worse things you could smell like," he replies, and I'm distracted from the kryptonite eyes by the randomness of this statement; it sounds like something I would say. Not to mention the soothing sound of his voice, it's all low and rough and barely above a whisper, and all I can do in response is quirk an eyebrow at him. "You know, like cat puke or rotting vegetables."

The intensity of our gaze is finally broken as he seems to realize what he's just said. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw tightly in what I can only assume is embarrassment when the tips of his ears turn red.

Stifling another giggle/snort combo, I take a deep breath. "Well, yeah. I'd definitely rather be covered in sticky caramel syrup than cat puke. But, I suppose some people might be into that." His eyes snap open, just as I hoped they would, and the smallest smile seems to be trying to escape the confines of his scowl. "Although, maybe I'll have to try it some time."

Instead of the smile I was hoping for, his laugh suddenly sounds between us. It's melodic and lilting, and he looks surprised to hear it. More surprised than me, and that just makes me more intrigued.

"I wouldn't recommend that; you smell pretty good as it is."

This time I can't stop the giggle/snort at his awkward words. I'm not even sure he realizes what he's said to me yet. But I can definitely tell the moment it occurs to him.

"I mean, not that I was smelling you because that would be weird. Just that I couldn't help but notice, and you smell kind of fragrant. Much better than cat puke." He stutters the words out before performing an actual face palm and mumbling something that sounds an awful lot like, "Of course she smells better than cat puke, Edward, you douche, and stop talking about cat puke."

"Well, thanks. It's always good to know I smell better than cat puke." He flinches again at my use of today's catch phrase, but he gives me another tiny smile as well. "But, Edward, was it? Do you think I could get my bag back now? "

During the awesomeness that has been this conversation, he hasn't relinquished his hold on my bag. Looking down at it in his arms as though he has no idea how it got there, he thrusts it in my direction.

"Sorry, of course. Are you okay by the way?" His brow seems to crease in genuine concern, and I find myself wanting to lean across the table and smooth the marks out with my fingertips, yet I have no idea why.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine. I've got a chronic case of the dizzies and no internal equilibrium, so I'm pretty used to it by now. My entire body is covered with the evidence of my clumsiness."

His gaze drops down as though he's looking for these scars, and his eyes actually widen as he looks me over. I would normally be a little offended at being so blatantly checked out, but I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know he's doing it.

I angle my head to try to catch his eye. "See something you like?" My tone is anything but flirtatious, I'm not actually sure I know how to flirt, and I'm hoping for another laugh. But, instead, he looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and I'm surprisingly thrilled.

The red ears are back, and I have this overwhelming urge to pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair, but before I have time to act on these slightly inappropriate impulses a plastic cup lands on the table between us. The bored voice of counter girl number two shatters the strange tension that's sprung up between us.

"**Lend me your eyes I can change what you see  
But your soul you must keep, totally free."**

**Mumford & Sons 'Awake My Soul' **

**EPOV**

"Grande, skinny, de-caf, caramel frappachino, with cream and cinnamon sprinkles."

Oh, thank fuck.

Another person. Someone who will hopefully distract the crazy, brown mess – who is now the beautiful, brown girl - from noticing my unfortunate word vomit.

I can't believe she's still sitting here. I can't believe I just told her I liked how she smelled. I can't believe I actually brought up cat puke.

That can't be normal behaviour, can it?

I have to stop staring at her. It must be seriously creeping her out, but she's still here.

She looks at the cup and points silently with another quirk of her eyebrow.

"Oh, um, yeah. That's for you. To replace the other one, the one you're now kind of wearing."

I have no idea what I'm saying, and although this is a normal occurrence for me, this time I _really _don't want to be saying all of this bizarre shit.

For once in my life I want to be smooth, and interesting, and in full control of my motor-cortex functions.

But, somehow, she's still here.

Better than that, she's actually smiling at me. Her head tilted to the side in contemplation of something.

"Thanks, Edward. That's so unbelievably, unnecessarily nice of you."

I really don't know how to take that.

But then, I really don't know how to take her. I don't think I've ever met anyone like her in my life.

"No problem." Wow, that sounded vaguely normal; maybe there is hope for me yet.

She stands abruptly. Grabbing her bag and the new coffee, she shifts her weight from foot to foot in front of me. "So, I'm late. I've gotta go now, but it was great to meet you."

I think I manage to nod in response, and her smile is blinding. I've never really noticed how nice teeth can be before, but hers are white, and straight, and shiny.

And… we're back.

With a nod of her head, she turns and starts walking toward the door. I start floundering like a guppy out of water because I don't even know her name, and I'll probably never see her again.

I briefly contemplate some dramatic gesture, chasing her down the street and asking her out on a street corner in the pouring rain. God, that sounds gay.

Before I can do anything though, she turns back to face me.

"I'm Bella, by the way. I don't think I mentioned that."

I nod again and wait for her to continue. She pauses for a second before shaking her head and turning back to the door.

Hang on a second – was that an in? Was she giving me an in? Did I just totally fuck up a possible chance of asking her out?

While I'm mentally berating myself, and trying not to smack myself on the side of the head and chant, "Stupid, stupid, stupid," over and over again, I fail to notice as she makes her way back to the table.

"Okay, Edward? So there's this thing tonight." My head snaps up so fast at the sound of her voice that I think I pulled a muscle. I wince at the twinge it sends down my neck, and she pauses, shaking her head dismissively. "I dunno if it'd be your thing, or if you'd even want to come, but it sounds kinda cool."

I open my mouth to finally respond but she waves me off, reaching for a napkin and scrawling something on it in nearly illegible writing – an address.

"It's not a big deal, but maybe I'll see you there?" I think she sounds… hopeful. But that can't be right. "Around 8? If not, maybe I'll see you around some time."

Her warm eyes meet mine as she bites down on her bottom lip waiting for me to actually say something this time.

"Okay, maybe I'll see you there, Bella."

I smile as I say her name for the first time, and she smiles as she hears it.

With a final nod she turns back toward the door, and I barely notice the squish of her boots as she makes her way outside.

With a massive exhale of shaky breath and a wipe of my clammy hands on my jeans, I grin.

Somehow, in that clusterfuck of a conversation, I've managed to arrange to see her again, and the thought makes me inexplicably giddy.

I look at the sloppy note in my hand and realize I have no fucking clue where it is or what sort of event I may have just agreed to go to.

I never go anywhere but work, home and a local bar with Jay on occasion. This is way outside of my comfort zone,and my breathing starts to shallow at the notion.

Then I remember her smile, Bella's smile, and I feel my heart start to calm.

I can do this.

Picking my phone up, I call the one person I know can help me.

"Jay? You doing anything tonight?"

**A/N - Thanks again to LoriAnnTwiFan and Littlevic for their help with this chapter. **


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